The Stricken Field (11 page)

Moonlight glinted on his helmet, his eyes, his sword. She stopped again, reluctant to draw near.

Now she knew why there was a wraith at her back. There could be no retreat; she must go on.

"What does he want?" she demanded. He wants to kill you.

"Then he will be disappointed." She eased forward on absurdly shaky legs.

The white-haired demon grew ever more solid. Moonlight shone on the long blade, and the silver beard, and the heavy, hairy limbs. Teeth gleamed.

Thaile stopped.

The demon began to walk, and now he was openly grinning at her and hefting his sword in anticipation. She could see his chest move as he breathed.

She almost backed up a step, and then remembered that what was behind her might be a great deal worse than what was in front.

"Go away!" she shouted. "In the name of the Keeper!" The demon laughed, as if he had heard that. He was striding toward her and now she heard gravel crunch under his great boots.

"What's he going to do?" she wailed. He is going to kill you.

"No!"

"Yes. You are Stheam. You die now."

She smelled a strange salty tang in the air.

Stheam was only sixteen, a herder of sheep, and no one had ever shown him how to use a sword, but jotnar had come ashore at Wild Cape, and Grandsire had called in all the young men from the hills and issued swords and shields. Stheam had been told to stand watch here by the moorings in case more longships came.

He couldn't fight a giant!

Dropping the awkward, cumbersome shield, Stheam bolted off into the rocks. There was no path there. He scrambled up as fast as he could, but in a moment he knew he was cornered. Boots rasped on stone behind him.

He spun around. "Please! I don't want to die!"

The monster loomed over him, grinning, flaxen-haired, with a sheen of sweat on his shoulders and wind-reddened face, a joyous gleam of hatred in inhuman blue eyes. He probably did not understand the words. He would not heed them if he did.

He poked playfully with his sword. Stheam threw up his own blade instinctively and it was smashed aside like a twig, sending spasms of pain up his arm. With a snort of disgust the giant thrust his sword into Stheam's belly, pushing it deep and twisting until the point grated on the rock behind.

The pain was beyond imagining. He fell to the ground, clutching the bloody mess falling out of him. He tried to scream, and that hurt even more.

Oh, Gods! The pain! He whimpered animal noises, feeling blood rush hot through his fingers.

The warrior kicked him a few times to roll him over, then leered down in triumph and contempt. He spat, and even through the awful torment in his gut, Stheam felt the spittle splash cold on his cheek. The jotunn walked away, leaving his victim writhing in death agony.

It was not quick, and nobody came.

Thaile lay facedown on the path, the gravel hard and cold on her face. She was shaking violently and felt sick. She must not be dead, then. She was a woman again, Thaile.

"Am I alive?" she whispered to the ground. You are alive.

"I thought he killed me." He killed Stheam.

She raised her head. The Way stretched ahead of her, empty. The warrior had vanished and the eerie shadows were deserted. She felt her abdomen with nervous fingers, but found no wound. The awful pain had gone, too.

Her convulsive shivers warned her that she would freeze if she stayed. She struggled to her knees on the sharp rocks and then to her feet. She did not look behind her. She began to walk unsteadily through the frosty stillness of the night. Her shadow walked at her feet, sometimes two shadows.

Was that all? Could that be all? Had she survived the ordeal? Then why did she still see two shadows? Whatever was casting that second shadow was not human. Had some experience like Stheam been enough to drive Mist into madness?

Something moved in the darkness ahead and her heart leaped wildly. She stopped. Not again!

Again. She saw another movement. Hint became form as she watched; form became substance. Tricks of the light became watchers. Three shapes waited for her on one side, two more on the other. She tried to take a step backward and there was a wall there. The rocks were more like corners of buildings, high board fences. The moonlight was yellowish, not so bright now, it was lamplight from a window, but they had seen her. She had no weapons this time. She was a woman, trapped in a courtyard.

Trapped by shadows-but she could see them solidify as they approached, and their voices were becoming audible. They were between her and the gateway. They were chuckling and making jokes in words she did not understand and did not need to. The wall was cold, rough stone at her back. It was not to be death this time, at least not at first.

"Stop them!" she screamed.

You are Hoon, sighed that faint inhuman voice in her mind. They are imps, the dark-haired demons.

"They are men!" They were real men, not mere shadows, living bodies, brown-skinned, dark and bearded and armored. They were not as large as jotnar, but every one was larger than Hoon. Hoon could hear her sister-in-law yelling at the children upstairs. She could hear horses and wagons going by in the street. She opened her mouth to scream for help and legionaries rushed at her. She dived for the gap between them. Hands caught her and reeled her in, in to the heavy male laughter.

More hands seized her face and forced it up to meet bearded lips. His mouth was foul. Hands held wrists and ankles. More hands were fumbling with her clothes, stripping them off, fumbling with her body ... Pain and humiliation. Then just pain. And finally death of course, when they were all satisfied.

Again Thaile lay on the cold, cold gravel of the Way, and the moon had not moved in the sky.

"How many more?" she whimpered. All you can endure, and then more.

She was uninjured, except where she had scraped her hands on the ground. Her body was uninjured. Her mind was another matter. It would crumble to nothing if it had to take much more of this. She heaved herself up again and stumbled forward. There was no going back.

She had not gone a dozen paces before she was Keem, drowning while a boot forced his face down into the mud. She was Drume. She was Shile.

"What lies Outside?"

Death and torture and slavery. All of those, and more.

She died in darkness and in sunlight. She was stabbed, and clubbed, and raped to death by jotnar twice her size. She was a soldier in a squad trapped by a dragon, rampaging in quest of bronze as the men desperately stripped off their armor and hurled it at the searing, incandescent monster. It roared and flamed, and charred skin from flesh and then flesh and bones, too.

Reen was tending his father's herd when a squad of refugee djinns came by. He did not realize his danger, or he would not have waited to speak with them. They spread him over a stump and sodomized him repeatedly. He lost a lot of blood and died two days later of a fever.

Quole had screamed for help until she could scream no more, and none had come. Clutching her child tightly, she backed into a corner of the cellar. The gnomes knew she was trapped now. They came creeping forward through the gloom, piping in shrill excitement. There was barely enough light even to show the gleam of their eyes and their innumerable little sharp teeth and nails. Gnomes could see in the dark, though. They were tiny and had no weapons, but they were starving.

The red-haired demons were djinns, cruel and ruthless. The gold-haired demons were elves, whose arrows nailed living bodies together.

"We need to make an example," the impish centurion said. "Take that one. String him up and flog him to death." It was all real, every time. Always it was real death, personal death. It was never Thaile, never just pretend. It was Why me? and I am not ready! It was always pain and humiliation and the discovery that a human body was only a sack of fluids that could be made to leak and suffer unbearably. Dying was the ultimate degradation, and sometimes it took days.

And always it was becoming Thaile again, and realizing that this was not Thaile's death, not yet, and climbing to her feet again afterward and going onward until the next one came.

Kaim was chained in the cell. He smelled smoke ... They were the wraiths of the pixies who had died in the War of the Five Warlocks. They had been waiting in the Defile for a thousand years for someone to die their deaths again and release them-someone with Faculty.

Looq was a slave, being worked to death as a matter of policy.

"You will talk," the djinn told Reil. "You will tell us everything."

Reil did not even know what they wanted to know. And it could all happen again! The demons were still there, Outside, waiting. Only the College and the Keeper kept them away.

Thaile knew that, in the moments when she was Thaile, staggering along the Way in the moonlight, waiting for the next wraith. She knew that her own death, whenever it came, could never be so bad. She knew why she had been sent to walk the Defile, why everyone in the College was sent to walk the Defile.

She knew who followed her.

She knew also what she would tell the Keeper in the morning-that Leeb did not matter anymore.

Lonesome road:

Like one that on a lonesome road
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And, having once turned round, walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows a fearful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.

— Coleridge, Rime of the Ancient Mariner

A cruel north wind was marching flurries of snow over the moors. The sun had already lost whatever slight warmth it had offered at noontide. The foothills of the Isdruthuds lay ahead, white and inhospitable, while the towering ranges beyond promised much worse.

No defined road crossed the scaly gray landscape. The convoy of wagons was well scattered, as each driver sought the smoothest way. Being neither footsloggers nor good horsemen, dwarves traveled on wheels by preference. Their wagons were always stoutly built, and a single vehicle hauled by six dogged mountain ponies could carry a dozen or more armed warriors all day. In this instance most of the carts were high-piled with loot, but one of them included a couple of prisoners.

Wrapped in several layers of fur, Inos huddled next to the imperor, using him as a windbreak. She wished that those famous Dwanishian craftsmen had thought to provide at least an awning to keep off the weather, plus springs of the superb steel that only they could manufacture-but doubtless dwarves would view both as decadent luxuries. Dwarvish transportation rapidly converted nondwarves into bruised jellies, baked or frozen as the case might be.

Up front, the driver slouched on the bench as if half asleep, yet he bounced at every rock. The next wagon ahead was being driven by Raspnex. Imperors as windbreaks, warlocks driving carts? The world had gone mad. She twisted her head to make sure Gath was still in sight. He preferred to walk as much as he could, just as she would if she had a decent pair of boots. He was visible in the distance, striding along between two diminutive trotting goblins. The guards did not object because the goblins were allies and could run down any jotunn pup with one leg tied behind their backs.

The caravan's nominal commander, Sergeant Girthar, was a mundane, but he took orders from the warlock. That . seemed to be more politics than sorcery. There was another sign of insanity in the world-that sorcery should now be banned as dangerous. Raspnex had discarded his Long Runner goblin disguise; he had refused to use power to save Kadie. And where was poor Kadie now? What was she doing, seeing, suffering, feeling? Inos sighed.

Snowflakes swirled in the air.

"You mustn't brood, Inos," Shandie said.

Brood? She choked back an angry retort, for of course he was right. She had been brooding, about Kadie. She would never forgive herself for what had happened to Kadie-or was going to happen to Kadie, abducted by a horde of savages. Kadie filled her nightmares and was waiting for her when she awoke and haunted her days. She had very little hope of ever seeing her husband again, but the thought of doing so and then having to tell him of her folly and the loss of Kadie was unbearable.

"No," she said. "Who am I to argue with the Gods?" Shandie raised an eyebrow. The abrasions on his face had mostly healed now, or been covered over by his beard. He was a ragged, dirty, disreputable excuse for an imperor. Not that she was a notable example of queenhood. "What about the Gods?"

"When Rap spoke with the Gods, They told him he would have to lose one of the children."

Shandie eased himself to a more comfortable position on the load and adjusted his fur cover. He frowned. "You didn't tell me that!"

She almost asked why she should have, when he kept secrets from her. Discretion prevailed, and she restrained her temper. "Then I forgot. That's all, really, typical divine vagueness. They wouldn't say which child, or how. They implied that all this mess was Rap's fault."

"It's not his fault, but he caused it without meaning to." "He doesn't know how."

"He does now."

"Well, you didn't tell me that!" She had discovered that Shandie was a very taciturn man. He asked a lot of questions and volunteered very few answers. He had not yet told her about the magic scrolls. Raspnex had, and she was grateful to the warlock for that-it was wonderful to know that Rap had been in good health as recently as a few days ago-but the imperor had not seen fit to trust her with that information. In a week, she had not penetrated his shell, and he still refused to say exactly where Rap had gone. She could understand the reasoning, but it rankled.

He grunted. "Sorry. The warlock explained to us, that night in Hub. There used to be an unlimited supply of magic. Rap cut it off somehow. Apparently he thought he was doing a good deed, but he had made it impossible for the wardens to counter Zinixo's Covin. It had something to do with Faerie. I don't know the details-do you?"

She shook her head. "It hurts him to talk about sorcery." For a few minutes neither spoke. The wagon lurched and jangled over rocks and hummocks. This was the least uncomfortable of the wagons, laden mostly with the party's tents and a mountain of leather. Dwarves had curious ideas about loot. Several wagons carried gold and silver and were unbearably knobby and noisy to ride in. Others were full of rope, canvas, alum, and fuller's earth. Given the same chances, jotnar would have taken spices and dyes, works of art and fine fabrics. Dwarves spurned those as impractical conceits.

"But the God's message is interesting," the imperor said. "Did They say that Rap must lose a child, or you yourself must, or both of you?"

"I don't know."

"They can be very cruel, Inos, but They rarely add to Their punishments by foretelling them. Perhaps They meant only one child? They may have intended Their words as a comfort for you."

"Perhaps They meant he would lose one and I another? As I recall, They implied that one child was a minimum. Frankly, I think we are all doomed!"

"Don't ever give up hope!" Shandie said sternly. "If They specified one child, then They had reason to do so, and They gave the message to Rap, not to you. If They foresaw these events happening and being important, then the circumstances must be ordained and therefore not your fault. I think you have cause for hope there, Inos. Trust in the Good!"

There was just enough difference in their ages for him to seem young to her. Pomposity and youth were an unpleasant blend. He was imperor by right of birth and he could claim to be on a diplomatic mission at the moment, but in truth he was a penniless refugee and more or less a prisoner of war. He had blundered into an ambush and almost died because of it; he had even lost a letter Rap had written to her, which she resented unreasonably. Again she suppressed a snippy reply.

"I expect you're right. And I am not the only one with loved ones in danger. I think you were doing some brooding yourself."

He smiled weakly. "Perhaps a little. I have had several hundred predecessors on the Opal Throne, and not one of them was ever overthrown by a dwarf!" He had evaded the question.

"Who knows? Your subjects believe you still reign. Who can say what hoaxes may have been carried out in the past?"

"Perhaps. But I am the first imperor ever captured by goblins!"

There was no denying that humiliation. "I meant to ask you," Inos said, making a digression more tactical than tactful. "You had a companion who escaped?"

"A man by the name of Ylo, a superb horseman. I think he escaped."

"So where will he have gone?" Shandie grimaced.

"Well?" she demanded, shutting the trap.

"I think he will have gone back to tell my wife." Shandie would lecture for hours about his dreams for the Impire, about justice and equitable taxation and the rule of law, but in the last week he had not once mentioned his wife.

"Tell me about her."

He sighed. "Eshiala? She is the most beautiful woman in the world."

"You love her deeply?" "Beyond words." "What's she like?"

He shrugged. "Tall,. . . Not as tall as you, but she's pure imp, of course-no offense meant. Dark coloring, naturally. Face, figure ... How can I describe perfection?"

"Well, apart from that?" Inos persisted. "What does she enjoy?"

"Enjoy?"

"Yes. Does she like music? Dancing? Riding?"

"I ... I'm not ... She's a marvelous dancer now. I mean, she was always naturally graceful but ... " His voice trailed off uncertainly.

"How long have you been married?"

"Three years-but we've been apart a lot of that time, you understand. We were only together a few weeks after the wedding and ... And I was terribly busy after I got back to Hub last summer."

"Too busy, you mean?" she inquired, wielding her best harpoon smile, spoiling the effect with a sudden grunt as the wagon lurched into an especially bad pothole.

"Much too busy-my grandfather was in his dotage and had almost let the Impire fall apart. Ylo helped me stick it back together again."

Friend Shandie was very good at manipulating conversation. Perhaps it was a military thing-feints, diversions, attacks deflected. Inos thought of several pertinent comments and discarded all of them. Instead she asked, "How old is she, the impress?"

"Er, twenty."

"It must be very hard for her." Married at seventeen to a man who disappeared after a few weeks and left her with child? Married to a man so busy that he didn't have time to entertain her when he got back? Inos had a vague memory that the prince imperial had married a commoner. To be promoted to the highest rank of the aristocracy at seventeen would be a shattering experience for a girl who had any sensitivity at all. Inos also suspected that the imperor did not know his wife nearly as well as he thought he did, or should.

"Tell me about this Ylo man."

"My signifer. A soldier, an aristocrat. He was quite a hero in the army."

"Young? Old?" "Young."

After a long pause, the imperor added, "A bit of a rogue. Good-looking."

"So that's why you were brooding!"

The imperial eyes flashed angrily. "What do you mean by that?"

"He thinks the goblins killed you?"

"It would be a reasonable assumption."

Inos sighed and then smiled sympathetically at the troubled young man beside her. "We were both brooding and we both have much to brood about."

He nodded. "Yes, I'm afraid we do. I trust my wife absolutely, you understand, but if she believes she is a widow, then she will have to consider our child's welfare." For a while the imperor stared blankly out at the rolling moorland, doubtless imagining his wife married to the handsome signifer.

"She is physically safe, though," Inos said. "Or I assume she is. That's one comfort."

"True. Whereas your lambs are not."

"And few women are as fickle as most men fear. She will be very unusual if she forgets her love for you and throws herself into another man's arms right away. Two years is a normal mourning period-I don't mean legally, I mean it takes that long to recover from a bereavement. You will just have to hurry back to her as soon as you can."

Shandie did not reply to that. He scratched his stubble thoughtfully, as if planning a speech, and then changed the subject.

"Inos, even here we are in some danger, you and I and Gath. When we get to Gwurkiarg the risks will become much worse. I've been talking with the warlock, and we agree that there is no need for you to come all the way to Dwanish with us."

"I understood that we were prisoners of war?"

"In theory. But Raspnex is still warlock of the north. Dwarves don't argue with him. Tomorrow we should arrive at Throgg. I visited it once. It's a mean little hamlet, one of those sorry border places that gets destroyed whenever it grows big enough to be worth fighting over. The buildings are a bedraggled collection and the people are a hard lot. However, this war isn't going to come its way. It's relatively secure this time. We'll leave you there, and you can hide out in safety, if not comfort. By summer the way should be clear for you to make a dash back to the coast and catch a ship. Maybe the summer after, even."

"The prospect does not exactly fill me with rapture." Shandie chuckled cheerfully. "But any port in a storm, right? Take up weaving or bird watching! You must think of your kingdom, and war is no place for a woman." If he noted her reaction, he gave no sign of it. "You have children to consider," he added. "I think the snow's passing, don't you?"

Nothing ever roused Inos's temper faster than a suspicion that she was being patronized. "Mmm. Spell out the Dwanishian danger for me," she said sweetly.

He shrugged. "Just that the warlock and I plan to appear before the Directorate to spread the news about the new protocol. The meeting will be private, but word of our presence in Gwurkiarg may get around."

She donned an expression of candied innocence. "Dwanish was Zinixo's home ground, right? He went back there after Rap destroyed his sorcery, and he spent almost twenty years there. He built his power base there. Surely all the sorcerers in Dwanish were coerced into the Covin long ago?" Am I understanding correctly? Can a mere woman grasp such convoluted concepts?

Shandie shrugged. "Raspnex does not think so. Dwarves are such a suspicious breed that they're not easily trapped, although he doesn't put it in quite those terms, of course."

"Let me guess," she said, still being all virginal and dulcet. "You and the warlock go before the Directorate and make your little speeches, appealing for help. But Zinixo would not have left his home base unguarded, so he has a spy or two on the Directorate itself. The spy sends an occult message to the Covin, and in a flash the hall is stiff with sorcerers. Am I getting close?"

The imperor gave her a calculating look. His beard was salted with snowflakes, which were flying thicker than ever. "You've been talking with the warlock, too?"

"Not about this."

"WeII, I'm impressed! Queens learn to think strategically, I suppose. Yes, you're exactly right! Zinixo must know by now what we're up to, and he has hundreds of smart people utterly devoted to his cause. The Directorate will certainly be under surveillance, at the least."

His attitude made Inos' fingernails itch, but admittedly he was making sense. Although it was many years since she had seen Zinixo, the thought of him could still pucker her skin. If half of what she had been told was true, then the vindictive dwarf would dearly love to get his hands on Rap's wife and son. She would prefer to deny him the satisfaction, if possible. A year of concealment in the odioussounding Throgg might be preferable, and she did have a responsibility to her realm. She shuddered to think what might be happening back there now, with no one to keep peace between the factions.